i PS 1229 



r^o' 










'0 o''^l*'f CD 











THOUGHTS 



EMMA BURT 



NEW YORK: j\ 
GEO. W WHEAT, PRINTER 



Kntered, accoiains to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
Kmma BckT; in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at 
Washington, D. C. 



)l 



CONTENTS. 



Pacjk 

New Year's Eve 5 

Only a Thought 6 

From Source to Sea T 

Invocation 9 

Palette Ethics lo 

The Reason , 12 

])IG(3ING the Well 13 

Alone 14 

Dolly's Prayer 15 

Why? 17 

Our Elm 18 

A Tribute 30 

Lost 21 

Aged Youth 22 

God Reigns 23 

Cut Off 24 

A Bird Hath Flown This Way 25 

Prophecy 26 

On Every Height there lies Repose 27 



THOUGHTS. 



]NfEW YeA!^'? JJvE. 

BY EMMA BURT. 

Year! I stand in still expectancy! 

T stand in awe before thy op'ning gate, 
Clioosino- to step witliin, and grasp ttiy gifts 
Of varied life. To gather for myself; 
To sip some sweetness, to enrich my soul,— 
And then, perchance, T may disseminate. 
Ah! there the doubt obti'udes. In fearfulness 

1 shrink, O Year, because thou hast a claim 
Upon my effort. Thou aslv'st not food nor rai- 
ment— 

Not the machinery of life, though that 
Must never fail; but were I true to thee, Year : 
I'd sow the Christly spirit down thy walks, 
To heal the sore, revive the fainting ones, 
Perhaps illume the noble soul, and true; 
That scorns the falsities of life, 



6 T HOUGHTS. 

Yet sits and bids t.lie dai'kling train of doubts 

Possess him; all that motley throng of doul)ts, 

Born of tlie knotty problems of our life — 

Those problems which the Master ne'er designed 

That human thought should loose. 

Yet, ever is it thus— the Finite strives 

To comprehend the Infinite, 

And baffled beats against the bars of being, 

Till, full of weariness, it droops, and stops 

Its teasing etfort, knowing not 'tis well 

To be denied. 

Yeai", I enter ! What thy gifts may be 

1 question not. I only crave the seal 
Of Royalty be on them. 

May I not shrink from use of meager talent. 
But in quietness and strength perform 
The Roval Will. 



^nhy A Jhouqht. 

BY EMMA BURT. 

A thouglit, 
And mighty armies meet like mighty waves, 
And broad fields are sowuAvith a million graves 
A thought of right, and truth a nation saves. 
Out of a thought, 

" What hath God wrought I" 



THOUGHTS. 7 

A tliouglit 
or liumaii possibilitj' — Beliokl 1 
Electric-ladeu veins tlie vi^orlcl enfold, 
And tlirongli tliem grandly tides of thought are 

rolled, 
To pause, and hark, and hear the nation's gi'eet— 
To fee] life's pulse, and hear its great heart beat. 
Ah ! such a thought was wondrous, great and 
sweet- 
Out of a thought, 
" What hath God wrought !'" 

A thought— 
From out a thought a universe is made. 
And in His palm humanity is laid. 
A THOUGHT created thought, and all is said. 
Out of a thought 

" What hath God wrought !" 



Yf{OM ^ouf^ce to ^E/. 

BY EMMA BURT. 

Omniscient One: 

Thou knowest the inmost heart, tlie liidden 

springs 
Whence rise emotions infinite 
That stream, like waters, thro' the life, 
Now flowing gently and contentedly. 
And babbling all tlie pretty common-place 



8 THOUGHTS. 

Of children and of simple kindly I'olk, 

Until, perhaps, some fallen tree impedes 

Its onward course, compelling it to work 

Garrulously 'round or underneath, 

And after, peevishly resume its way. 

Until uniting with it, other streams. 

The waters deepen and the surface spread. 

Too soon the mountains wall its sides ; but it 

No longer brooks restraint. Unsatisfied 

With all the past, rebellions of the present. 

It proudly lifts ; and surges 'gainst tlie base 

Of mountain stern— it frets, and chafes, and 

foams 
Itself ; till other forces pressing on with power, 
Impel the maddening swells, that rush 
It forth among the rocks— the hidden rocks 
lieneath; the half-poised threatening ones above, 
Tlie mossy one that leaneth o'er its face. 
And those defiant looming up ahead. 
Ah, fearful is a tortuous course like this ! 
It wrestles faintly with the subtle one. 
It almost loses motion 'neath the smile 
Of those who flatter ; but before the foe — 
The open foe— it gathers up its strength, 
And hurls upon the ugly front, its mass 
Of waters black ; which, shocked, shrink, and 

shriek 
And wail— and rush above, around, beneath 
And onward down, from rock to rock, in sheets 



THOUGHTS. 9 

Of agoii^-, aud foam of torture broke — 
Yet breaking still. Down, down, all purposes, 
Howe'er sublime, are shattered quite in mist, 
And foam, and spray, and waters deep and 

wiiite ! 
Power above ! 

Since tliou dost liold the waters in tliy hand, 
How well thou see'st the anguish of its course, 
And then the helpless life beneath the fall ! 
So, in thy wondrous mercy, thou dost arcli 
Thy beauteous bow of promise over all. 
Thou see'st tlie re-united energies 
Grow tranquil, and again with glorious sweep 
Flow strongly onward, widening, deepening. 

still. 
Till lost in the immeasurable expanse. 



Invocation. 

BY EMMA BUKT. 

sunset in thy splendor ! 
moon so true and tender ! 

whispering elm so slender ! 

1 come in want to-night. 
Give of thy glory bright. 
Give of thy grace and might. 

Pray comfort me with clearer sight. 
And fill me with thy tranquil light. 



THOUGHTS. 



pALETTE 'JjTHICp. 



BY EMMA BUKT. 

The sunbeams shyly through tlie leaves stole 

clown, 
The saucy breezes followed in their train, 
And thus the slender sliaft of sunlight broke 
Into a splendid gold dust through the shade. 
The sweetness of the newly blossomed grape 
Exhaled in delicate pulses on the air. 
Each gave itself to Nature's devotee. 
Who wrouglit with Nature's tints a livelihood, 
Herself a picture in the casement framed. 
Her shapely liead with brownest curls en- 
wreathed, 
While on them half the showered gold dust lay, 
With other half adown the brow and dress. 
And through tliem idly fondly played the breeze 
And subtly unperceived the odor lurked. 
The easel held its moist unfinished sketch. 
Upon the sill the idle pencils lay. 
With careless grasp (because a mood of dreams 
Across her spirit crept), slie held the palette old, 
On which were flecks of white and Prussian blue. 
Of scarlet lake, of ochre, umber, chrome, 
And other hues as motley as the throng 
That gathers in the Park on sunny days. 



THOUGHTS, 11 

Her restive spirit for an instant broke 

The bonds of labor, and slie stepped beyond 

The tangible to breathe ethereal airs. 

She murmured to herself: 

"Yes! black so black, and white so white, and 

blue 
So surely blue, and yellow's glare, and red- 
Proclaim an individuality. 
Each in itself is good, yet lacketh each 
Another's power. Combined, create anew — 
From yellow and the blue, a green comes forth 
That make til all creation glad. From white 
And red and black, come rich and quiet browns. 
Then restful greys appear, and violet 
And every gradation nice for light and shade and 

tint. 
The overflowing seek the empty space; 
Vacuity cries out for that which fills; 
The poor do need the rich, the rich the poor. 
And creed with creed in charity should meet. 
Else may new tints, true tints, developed be ?" 
" Father!" she spoke in gentle invocation. 
Turning her deep eyes upward to the light, 
" Father, thou holds't the palette in thy hand; 
AYe lie, the flecks of color, thereupon. 
Comljine us as thou wilt in beauteous shades, 
Then blend us on thy canvas in a picture that's 

sublime." 



42 THOU GH TS 



BY EMMA BURT. 

True wecldecl love is sweet— supremely sweet ; 

But It clotli liide with few. And it is meet 

It should be so. While one doth press to greet, 

With eager lips, the one who cometh fleet— 

The many go their loveless ways alone. 

They firmly walk, and bravely, without moan, 

Because of compensations that atone. 

It must be so. Each heart doth know its own. 

"My love hath passed forever far away. 

He answereth not to me by night or day." 

" And mine hath proven false, listen pray ! 

He was unworthy, and he could not stay." 

" And mine did come unbidden to my heart — 

It might not be— unchidden he did part 

From me. Now, oft-times memory doth start. 

At mention of a name along the mart, 

A thousand keen sensations. They subside, 

Like sobbing music at the eventide. 

Great, grave, and purposeful, and true, beside 

Me stands my life, whispering, ' Thou art my 

bride, 
Tho' all else perish, God doth yet abide.' " 



[) 



THOUGHTS. 13 



Piqqi]Mq the ^^ih. 

BY EMMA BURT. 

Dig deep, my boys ! 

For you know the drought may come. 

The thirsty sun may lap up the streams, 

And scorch the mead with its flaming beams. 

The lolling kine, and the lifeless leaves. 

And the weary reaper binding his sheaves 

May plead for refreshing. Then dig, boys, 

deep ! 
That nature may smile, and its verdure keep. 
Dig deep, boys— deeper still ! 
Though a weary depth you have gone ; 
And the hands are bruised, and the white brow 

drips 
With labor's sweat, and parched are the lips, 
And the swooning spirit cries out for repose. 
And says, "Tis enough, for the water flows." 
Go deeper, boys, where the great rocks lie, 
And seek of water unfailing supply. 
Dig deep, my boys ! 
Till you strike on a vein of truth ; 
Tlie world is a thirst, and it turns to thee 
For plenteous waters, unfailing and free. 
To drink, and to lave it, and make content. . 



14 THOUGHTS. 

Would you turn it away with the words, "They 

are spent"? 
Nay, labor rather till life is gone. 
For fuller truth than the world lias known. 



5\: 



,ONE. 



BY EMMA BURT. 

And Christ must look to souls which stand alone 
With infinite compassion. He knoweth well 
What solitude doth mean. "Can ye not watch 
One liour ?" He said unto His chosen ones — 
One hour ! And yet the lieaviness of flesh 
Weighed down their lids in dreamless sleep pro- 
found. 
The precious hour was spent; and He alone, 
In wrestlings mighty with an unseen force, 
And sorrow at the weakness of a race 
O'er which His boundless nature yearned, 
The while it slept. In all the universe. 
Not one to break the awful isolation. 
A world of people— yet He stood alone. 

Ah, it was not the thorns, the scourge, the cup, 
The pierced hands and feet; but angels wept. 
When they beheld, for us. His great heart break! 

And this is why we have assurance sweet 



THOUGHTS. 15 

That souls are not alone. A Heakt doth beat 
For those in solitude— forever throbs 
In sympathy with those whose loved ones sleep — 
Who are misunderstood — who stand, 
Perchance, in sorrow stern, because a friend, 
The chosen of the earth, hath struck the blow 
That wounds. O, this is earth's 
Most awful isolation ! He knoweth all, 
His universe is wide; yet we are not alone. 



BY EMMA BURT. 

God in Heas-en, please to harkeii 
To your little Dolly's prayer ! 

While the preacher says the preachiu' 
Please to tell me where you are ! 

For I am so tired waiting 
Till the big words all are said. 

And Amen, and then the music, 
'Till the peoples bow their head. 

If I knew the way to Jesus, 
I would creep so soft along 

That I wouldn't 'sturb the preachei', 
Nor the prayin', nor the song. 



16 THOUGHTS. 

" Tlieii I'd ran so very swiftly, 
And I'd give Uini a surprise — 
Oh, I'm certain I should know Him 
When he met me with his eyes! 

" He would be so glad to see me. 
That his arms he'd open wide. 
And I'd quickly climb within them, 
There forever I would hide. 

" God in Heaven, please to harken 
To your little Dolly's prayer. 
While the preacher says the preachin' 
Please to show me where you are." 

Tired ones,, with hearts impatient. 
How we echo Dolly's prayer: 
" God in Heaven, please to harken, 
Please to lead us where you are." 



THOUGHTS. 17 

^HY? 

BY EMMA BURT. 

O God ! God ! Why is it ttius, I pray ? 
"Why is the thing we crave denied ? 
The harmony, the rest, the refuge, love 
Withheld? The spirit famished, naked, cold. 
Oppressed with fright for all the long to-mor- 
rows, 
Left to swoon, pei'haps to perish by the way ? 
And why the way so dark, I pray. 
Beset with grievous thorns ? And why, God 
In heaven, are feet so tender made. 
As if inured to gentler ways, unfit 
For aught beside ? May I not know ? 
Oh, why create a need in us that may 
Not be supplied? 

"Why, why, why?" 
Is the wild and desolate cry. 
Wrung from the spirit's pain, resounding far 

away, 
And back is tossed the echo, "I, I, I—" 
• Alone ? Here am I . 

Unrest? Rest give I. 

Dark ? Light am I. 

Bleeding ? Even as I. 

Loveless ? Love am I. 

Child of the Earth, abiding forever 

And ever 

AMI. 



i8 THOUGHTS. 

BY EMMA RUKT. 

rrom out tlie valley towers a lordl}-^ elm ; 
A mighty trunk, deep-rooted in the earth, 
Diverges into branches pliant, strong, 
That spread aloft in a munificence 
Of sweeping limb and drooping twig adorned 
With foliage dense and rare. 

It stands not stark in its austerity, 
But yields in gentle charity a way 
For innocent. Idle breezes through its boughs. 
Tlie breezes rock tiie boughs, and softly hum 
A quiet lullaby to bal)y-birds. 
The drowsy cattle loll beneath its shade 
At height of sun— soon, as the sun declines. 
Its shadow rests across the meadow quite. 

When dark days come, and tempests sweep 
and swoop 
Across the vale, and twist the sapling frail, 
And snap the sturdy tree that ne'er has bent 
In kindliness— our beauteous elm, it sways 
And sweeps, and bends, and creaks ; but when 

the storm 
Has spent itself, we look, and lo I it stands 
As it has stood before— complete. 



THOUGHTS. 19 

We know, tree, that there is given tliee 
A nature winning and symmetrical 
Beyond thy fellows. The poplar casts its long 
Ancestral shadow ; and the oak is strong 
In its integrity. The maple hath 
Its dignity severe — each lacketh yet 
That yearning sympathy, and cliarity 
Divine, for those far weaker than itself. 

But whence, elm I thy mcUvkliuil strength ' 
I reverently approach, and find beneath 
The meagre soil, the gnarled root is clasped 
About the eternal rock. While, close beside. 
There ceases not to flow a stream — 
So pure, reflected are the flitting clouds. 
The circling birds, the willows, and the flags, 
Aye, lieaven itself— 

So vital that the mighty tree 
Through root, and trunk, and branch, and twig, 

and leaf, 
Is nourished and made strong; 
O God ! the rock on which to clasp our faith, 
O home ! the stream to feed our sympathies. 



20 THOUGHTS 



^ Jl^IBUTE. 

BY EMMA BUKT. 

So Strange a thing ! We cannot come to think 

It less than strange, the' day by day, before 

Our very eyes, the wondrous change doth come. 

So short a step from strongly beating pulse, 

And teeming brain, and tireless hand, and power 

To feel the throes of nations ; or the grief 

A single soul may bear— so short a step 

From this to full repose, from which there is 

No waking. Yesterday, midst toilsome life. 

To-day departed from the weary strife. 

So strange the change, so great the loss of force, 

Of purity, of truth, and singleness 

Of purpose! Yet 'tis well. Each master mind 

Must bear a weight of obloquy and toil ; 

And this is destiny : To serve our day 

And generation well— and then ? 

At rest forever— evermore at rest. 

The surge of foam-capped passion now must spend 

Itself upon the beach, because a Hand 

Hath moved the strong abutment from its base. 



THOUGHTS 21 



BY EMMA BUKT, 

Who's seen my clay ? 
'Tis gone away, 
Nor left a trace 
In any place. 
If I coukl only find 
Its foot-fall in some mind- 
Some spirit- waters stirred 
By wand of deed or word— 
I should not stand at shadowy eve. 
And for my day so grieve and grieve. 



22 THOUGHTS 

^QED Youth. 

BY EMMA BURT. 

Yes, the Ixair is white as Aviiiter, 
Thoughtless laughter's gone away, 

Taking with it witching dimples, 
Leaving only smiles at play 

'Mongst the shadows, and the tracery 
Delicately cut in clay. 

Flashing eyes no more discover 
What the pulsing breast conceals ; 

But tliey look with quiet wonder 
Oil the ways one life reveals— 

And they ask a silent question— 
And they say a word that heals. 

They perceive the outer changes, 
And they say, " I'm growing old ;" 

And a sudden wail of sadness 
Sweeps the harp-strings of the soul— 

A certain boundless yearniug 
For the things one may not hold. 

Then there comes a strain of gladness, 

"Age is riches manifold- 
Riches not of years, or beauty- 
Hearts that reach the world are gold 
Mighty thought and great endeavor 
Are the things that make us old." 



THOUGHTS. 23 



BY EMMA BURT. 

A Cloud came rolling up ray sky, to-day, 
Trailing its robes of wrath. It heavy hung 
With hidden bolts; yet muttered not a threat. 
The air grew strangely dark, and all was mute. 
" It comes ! It comes !" I cried, then shrank to 

earth, 
And shut my eyes, and held my cowai'd breath. 
Instead of flash, and crash, and shock, and death. 
There came a voice so sweet— so wondrous 

sweet !— 
I think it must forever echo, tossed 
From point to point, adown the years. 
Op'ning my wond'ring eyes— Behold a bird ! 
Poised on a laurel twig. All tremulous. 
It swayed the bough with ecstasy of song. 
The cloud was broken, and a shaft of light 
Lay down across the Earth. A song of trust— 
A molten pathway up from Earth to Heaven 1 



24 THOUGHTS 



5^UT K^Fp. 

BY EMMA BUBT. 

Cut Off, gone, perishecl, lost— forever lost ! 
The wound cloth never close ; but dripping, drop 
By drop, the warm blood flows, and will not be 
Assuaged. Drop by drop it slowly drips. 
And stains with crimson, all the snowy works 
The left hand singly weaves. The right hand hath 
Oft"ended. Do I mourn that it is gone ? 
Deplore the agony it cost to cut ? 
And oft with frenzied wish reach blindly forth 
To clasp it close again ? Nay, Lord forbid ! 
I hold within, a spirit strong, and stern ; 
I calmly wait, and bear the sullen pain. 
And pay the ruby tribvite, drop by drop, 
From out my life. And right hath power to save 
One from depletion- 
Aye, make a mortal gi'ief akin to joy. 



THOUGHTS. 25 



jA, ^iRD ]-(ath ]F]lown Jhi^ 

^AY. 

BY EMMA BURT. 

A tiny plume, 

Fasliionetl with consummate cave— 

Fasliioned and finished, 

And painted with tints as rai'e 

As clouds are accustomed to wear. 

Clouds on the breast of the air. 

A plume in the path. 

Perhaps to be ground in the leaves — 

Ground and buried — 

May be gatliered by one who believes 

In its beauty, and grieves 

For the loss of the bird that gives. 

A loss ■? 

Ay, full of tliis beautiful loss, I say, 

Is our life— this beautiful loss — 

Yet we mourn and pra)^ — foolishly pray — 

That our treasures may stay, 

When they tell that a bird hath flown this way. 



26 THOUGHTS. 



pROPHECY. 

BY EMMA BUKT. 

I enter from the chill and wintry wind, 
Which circling searches through the city's street, 
The cruel wind, the bitter frost ; the poor 
That shrink within their rags, and cower close 
In sheltered spots— so desolate ! I enter, 
A flood of sunset glory fills the room. 
Oh, Idessed sunset hour, so warm, so bright, 
You've entered in my soul and brought content. 
welcome, boundless, blessed light ! 
guest most welcome here. A homely place, 
'Tis true. By you 'tis broidered o'er with gold. 
Welcome, sweet light ! Art thou a prophet 
bright? 



RD - 17 



THOUGHTS. 27 

'Qn ^E^very ]-lEiqHT Jhere 

LlE3 l^EPO^E. 

BY EMMA BFRT. 

Wonkl you stand on my beautiful mountain? 

Tlie grey rocks are folded in shadow, 

Except where the sunset has swept them with 

gold. 
The timid vines creep from the crevice, 
And lie on the breast of tlie rocks ; 
And bloom, unrequested, with perfume. 
The passionless breezes come with their gentle 

refreshment, 
They pass Avith caresses across the hot brow. 
Afar below is the city. Do you faintly hear the 

throb 
Of its feverish heart •?— Do you see ? 
Ah, the white floating clouds interpose, 
As if to shut out from tlie vision Unrest. 
A voice like tlie chords jeolian, 
Softly sings, and rings without ceasing. 
Save now and then it recedes 
Beyond the listening ear. 
Upon the wild pulse a marvelous quiet rests, 
A peace on the brow, as if kissed by invisible 

liP'^ : r • 



28 THOUGHTS. 

The way, do you ask, up tlie heio-i\ts? 

Sweet-heart you may never miss it, 

For along the rocks are rootprints of blood. 

Nay, nay, do not come by this way ! 

On the other side, where the flowers, and the 
terns, 

And the vines are, I pray find a gentler path, 

When you come to my Ijeautiful mountain seek- 
ing repose. 






<* .. -^ ••" *>' 




;\ -. .^^\-'^ 




















' A° 



DOBBSBROS. 5» • '^ ^ V .^I^x^ffeT* ^6 

LIRRARY BINDING >^ /, o «^ -^ ♦V^l^fe''. <6 



'ifi^icUSTXliP'/ .^'^^'^^>- ^''^ 



FLA. 



* ^0^ 







/ ■t^' 



.w--- cv.c.;^^, =-0 __ .#,.-^ 



LIBRARY 



CONGRESS 




■mm' 



